r once did she turn her eyes in his
direction. She was lost in painful recollections of the hideous things
with which she seemed to be surrounded. She told him of her birth,
those strange circumstances which her aunt had told her of, and which
now, in her own cold words, sounded so like a fairy tale. She told him
of her father and her father's friend, the man who had always been his
evil genius. She told him of her father's sudden good fortune, and of
the swift-following disaster. She told him of his dreadful death at
the hands of his friend. Then she went on, mechanically reciting the
extraordinary events which had occurred to her--how, in each case
where men sought her regard and love, disaster had followed hard upon
their heels; how she had finally fled before the disaster which dogged
her; how she had come here, here where she thought she might be free
from associations so painful, only to find that escape was impossible.

"I need not tell you what has happened since I came," she finished up
dully. "You know it all. They say I brought them their luck. Luck? Was
there ever such luck? First my coming cost a man's life, and now--now
Ike and Pete. What is to follow?"

The Padre had not once interrupted her in her long story, and, even
now, as the last sound of her voice died out, it was some moments
before he spoke.

The fire in the grate rustled and the cinders shook down.

It was then that the girl stirred as though suddenly made aware of the
silence. Immediately the man's voice, cold--almost harsh, in contrast
to his usual tone, startled her.

"'Rest' is not your name," he said. "You have changed your name--to
further aid your escape from----"

"How do you know that?" Then the girl went on, wondering at the man's
quickness of understanding. "I had not intended telling you. But it
doesn't matter. Nothing seems to matter. Evidently my disguise is
useless with you. No, my name is not Rest. My father was Charles
Stanmore."

The man made no reply. He did not move. His keen eyes were on the
red-gold hair so neatly coiled about the girl's head. His lips were
compressed, and a deep frown had disturbed the usual serenity of his
broad brow.

For a moment Joan bowed her head, and her hands clasped tightly as
they were held toward the fire. Presently her voice sounded again. It
began low, held under a forced calm.

"Is there no hope?" she implored him. "Buck said you could help me.
What have I done that these things